The Robin And The Kestrel

'Well, I asked him for directions to a place where I could buy information, and just let it go at that,' she told him. 'I told him I had a former friend who'd been in the Whore's Guild here and I wanted to find out where she was. He was the one who told me what I really wanted. Directions to the worst part of town.'

'The _what?' He felt his eyes boggling again.

'The worst part of town.' She patted his hand reassuringly. 'Dearest, it's broad daylight, and once people there know I'm a Gypsy they'll leave us alone, unless we're really, really stupid. That's where you find things out; and that's where the Whore's Guild moved, after Padrik shut down the Houses. That's where we'll find out who's helping him, if there's anyone in this town who knows outside of the Cathedral.'

He felt sweat start up along his back, in spite of the chilly wind that cut right through his coat. Why did she do things like this?

But it was too late to back out now.

Robin knew that Jonny was nervous; all the signs were there for anyone to read, from the way he clutched her hand to the utter lack of expression on his face. And she didn't really blame him; despite her cavalier attitude, she was not particularly comfortable here either.

This district, tucked away between the tanners' and the dyers' quarters, was called 'the Warren.' It merited the name, for it was a maze of narrow streets too small for any size of cart to travel along, with buildings that leaned over the streets until they nearly touched, blocking out the sun. They hadn't been built that way, either; the Warren had been built over ground that had once been a refuse dump, and was now in the process of collapsing, and as it sank, the buildings leaned, coming closer and closer to falling down with every passing year. Constables never ventured in here; there were not enough of them. It would take a small army to clean out the Warren, and no one wanted to bother.

Sound echoed in here, and it was impossible to tell where a particular sound came from. This early in the afternoon, though, it was very quiet in the Warren. Somewhere there were children playing a counting game, a man coughed and could not seem to stop, babies wailed, and there were two people having a screaming argument. That was nothing compared with the noise and clamor in the inn district. The streets here were always damp, and slimy with things Robin didn't care to think about. The stench was not quite appalling; the horrible odors from both the tanner's and the dyer's district overwhelmed the local effluvia. A few undernourished, wiry children played in the streets_not the source of the childish voices, for these children were playing an odd and utterly silent game involving stones and chalk. But they were the exception here; most children in the Warren were hard at work_at a variety of jobs, some legal, most not. As soon as a child was able to hold something and take directions, it was generally put to work in a district like this one.

She was looking for a particular tavern; one of the few 'reputable' establishments down here, and probably the only one boasting a sign. This was where_so Wylie had told her_musicians were wise to come, and where he would have sent them if they had come to Gradford as Free Bards and not as traders.

Finally she spotted what passed for a sign; an empty barrel suspended over a tiny door. It looked nothing like a tavern on the outside, but when they opened the unlatched door and stood at the top of a short set of stone stairs, it was clear they had come to the right place.

Although the enormous room_a converted cellar_was very dark, it was also clean. A few good lanterns placed high on the wall where they would not be broken in a fight gave a reasonable amount of light. The furniture was simple, massive seats and tables built into the walls or bolted to the floor, so that they would not be broken up in a fight, or used as weapons. A huge fireplace in one wall with ovens built to either side_an ancient stone structure as old as the building_betrayed that this had once been a bakery.

Wylie's directions included a name_'Donnar'_and when the bold-eyed, short-skirted serving wench sauntered up to them with hips swaying, that was who Robin asked for.

Fortunately they had chosen the middle of the day for this little visit, for 'Donnar,' a remarkably well-spoken and entirely ordinary-looking man with nothing villainous about him, proved to be the owner of the Empty Keg.

'If ye a come past supper, I'd'a given ye short words,' he said, as he sat down at their table and wiped his hands on his apron. 'An' those'd been curses, I well reckon. So, m'friend Wylie sent ye?'

Robin nodded. Kestrel looked as if he felt a little more secure, with a wall to his back, and a fellow who could have been a perfectly ordinary citizen sitting across from them. Come to think of it, she felt a lot more relaxed, herself. 'We're Free Bards,' she said shortly.

Donnar raised an eyebrow. 'Thas more dangerous these days than bein' anythin' but a Buggie,' he said, using the rude term for a nonhuman. It came from the term 'Bug-eyed Monster,' notwithstanding the fact that most nonhumans were neither bug-eyed nor monsters.

'W-we're here as t-t-traders,' Kestrel said softly, 'in G-God-S-Stars. B-but w-we n-need t-to know what's b- been happening_why-why has G-Gradford g-gone crazy?'

'Ah.' Donnar nodded wisely. 'Good choice of trade-goods. So, ye want the short an' sorry tale'a what's been goin' on, eh? What happ'ned with Our Padrik, the miracle-worker?'